


Bad Dream

by k_beta_cygni



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Catharsis, Graves is sad, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, at least credence-in-his-head is having a Good Time Probably, everyone is trying their best, grindelwald is an ass, lowkey angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 04:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10869003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/k_beta_cygni/pseuds/k_beta_cygni
Summary: “Credence-...Credence, my boy, why did you save me?” He feels the familiar burn in his throat as the tears spill over; takes both of his hands in his as Credence stares. “Why did you leave me?”And Credence smiles as bright as the sun and moon and all the stars that lay in between, and he feels (just barely) whole.





	Bad Dream

**Author's Note:**

> this is a gravebone ficlet for y’all. graves is alive, credence…might be dead  
> song is Keane | Bad Dream

_I wake up,_

_it’s a bad dream,_

_no one on my side_

* * *

He remembers the first breath of fresh air - not fresh, really, just anything away from the water prison that he’s been in - _so goddamned cold_ -

And Goldstein is standing above him. surrounded by three other aurors, her mouth open and eyes filling fast with tears, and he feels - the winter-ice ache in his bones again. Feels it even as the feeling returns to his fingers, hard painful spikes as he claws at the floorboards and tries to pull himself up, but he’s too weak, too scared that none of this is real, that it’ll melt away to wicked multicolored eyes and white hair, and he’ll scream and scream and scream-

“Sir?” she whispers, and he wants to say - no, not anymore, I can’t be, I’m so sorry - but then his vision goes dark and he slumps forward. And for a moment, just for a moment, he feels relieved, because he won’t have to see them cry.

* * *

_I was fighting,_

* * *

He can’t walk straight, each step sending a tremor of pain up his thigh bone and into his hips. The walking stick had belonged to his father, a family heirloom, but even so with each thud of it against the floorboards, sometimes he just wishes he could snap it in half. Had done it once, and then with a wave of his hand and a wordless _Reparo_ the wood splinters had set back into place.

He hates the cane beyond anything, because all it reminds him of is how he suffered at the dark wizard’s hands - how Grindelwald had hurt him, made him broken and irreparable. He remembers struggling in the blood-red water as the man laughed and raised his wand-

and how he’d close his eyes right before, and despise himself for it, because isn’t he supposed to be strong? Isn’t he supposed to be the strongest? He should have died, should have fought to the death, then he wouldn’t be here, then that man wouldn’t be wearing his face and destroying his home and the people he wanted to protect.

The water is warm, hot to the point of scalding but all he feels is cold.

* * *

_but I just feel too tired - to be fighting_

* * *

A week later, Goldstein apparates to his front door, setting off the numerous wards he’d set up, and he falls out of his bed in terror, scrambles for his replacement wand. After she successfully manages her way out of each of the hexes and code words - bringing a touch of pride to his heart - he finds her standing in the foyer, back ramrod straight and looking oddly out of place in the dark shadows of the hallway.

She looks up as he descends the staircase. She doesn’t say anything about his unshaven beard and the dark hollows under his eyes, the gauntness of his cheekbones, his faded robes, and somehow that hurts more than anything, an immense wave of guilt pressing down through him.  

Goldstein tells him of the other one involved in the final capture of Grindelwald. A young man, an unregistered wizard that had been punished by his no-maj mother. A young man, turned into a demon of dark magic, a swirling maelstrom of violence and destruction.

An Obscurial.

He takes the picture from the folder, stares at it. It’s unmoving, unlike the ones he’s used to seeing, the ones that stare with pity from the walls of his house as he cries and screams– but he imagines he can see the way his chest moves up and down with each breath, the fearful tenderness in his face. And he closes his eyes and remembers soft fingertips against his jawline, dry and warm unlike the icy cold water around him. He remembers dreaming of a dark-haired angel as he choked on the not-air around him and the red-hot chains bit into his skin.

With some difficulty, he slides the photograph back across the table to her. “Where is he?”

Goldstein looks away, lips pursing as her fingers tighten around the folder, and he knows, before she says it, he knows because he remembers how it felt and knows what it means now. He remembers waking up to a sudden hollow emptiness as he floated in the darkness. And now he feels breathless with rage, to think that someone had taken the boy away from him-

But there’s nothing more that can be done, _just as always_ , nothing more he can do. Goldstein stands, then, eyes glued to the floor. Tells him that the President’s extended his leave but he’s free to return any time he wants. Once they circle back to the front door, she shuffles awkwardly in place, still strangely insecure and bold all at once. He opens his mouth, but finds he can't say the words - can't say "goodbye" without feeling weak and afraid. She smiles weakly at that, when he purses his lips and takes a step back, and nods. _Crack._

The silence afterwards is deafening. 

* * *

_guess I’m not the fighting kind,_

* * *

Abernathy is somehow already in front of his office waiting, cup of coffee in hand. His smile falters when he merely walks by him, opens the door to his office and closes it behind him.

He knows how Abernathy feels, knows, bitterly, how all of them must feel. He doesn’t have to be a fucking legilimens to figure it out, why no one’ll look him in the eye. Because it’s that strange mix between a naive hope for forgiveness, and somewhere deeper, the pain that comes with knowing they did wrong.  

He doesn’t know what more he can say, though. That tightness still lingers in his chest, because as much as he wishes he could tell them that it’s over now, that he doesn’t care that they couldn’t see - he does, so much. He can’t fall asleep from that feeling, of realizing how utterly replaceable he had been.

* * *

_Wouldn’t mind it if you were by my side,_

* * *

“Mr. Graves!”

He turns, and there he is, young Credence Barebone, bright-eyed and happy, and he knows that he’s never known this boy, never met him in real life but here, now, it’s like he’s spent a lifetime and more with him. And he misses him so sharply that it hurts.

“Credence-…Credence, my boy, why did you save me?” He feels the familiar burn in his throat as the tears spill over; takes both of his hands in his as Credence stares. “Why did you leave me?”

And Credence smiles like the sun and moon and all the stars that lay in between, and he feels (just barely) whole.

When he wakes up, _maybe_ , he thinks, _maybe it’s going to be over soon._

* * *

_But you’re long gone;_

* * *

The replacement wand had been all but useless, but it did give a decent spark, and that’s what started the blaze. Hundreds of clothes that the man had used and tapestries choked with dust and dark magic, the desks and furniture and his bed - and the fire is roaring, heated and dry against his skin. Smoke is rearing up into the sky, chased upwards by soft golden sparks, almost white against the stark blackness of the night sky.

And he imagines that in the flames, he can see him–Credence, whole and unharmed and alive. Something terrible and painful wracks through him, and he reaches out towards that heat, wishing that his hands would stop shaking.

By the time the flames die down, ash is floating through the courtyard of his mansion like bits of torn paper, and the charred wood looks like a broken, pitiful thing heaped there.

He’s not cold anymore.

* * *

_yeah, you’re long gone now._

**Author's Note:**

> please review.


End file.
